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Claude Monet’s home in Giverny 

Phil couldn't remember how long he had been doing this.

Had it been eons or millennia? Lifetimes or generations?

In the end, it doesn't really matter he supposed.

When he first became a Watcher, he was young, he was naive, and worst of all he was kind.

There was no place for kindness or empathy as a Watcher.

He learned in those first few decades to carefully box up his kindness, his empathy, his chaos, and emotions - everything that made him him - and carefully tuck it away in the corners of his mind. At first, it was to survive, to live with these seemingly higher beings.

But that changed when he received his first pupil.

He had climbed the ranks. He was loyal too, but then he was given this child to groom. This naive, innocent child who he had to turn into one of them.

The child was the perfect watcher, the child was obedient and cruel; nothing like Phil had been.

So was the next child and the next and the next.

Child after child was happy to fall to the Watchers games, none needed the kindness and empathy that now sat unlocked in Phil’s mind.

Then it changed again.

His newest pupil’s name had been Grian, before his galactic name had been given to him at least.

Grian was bursting from the seams with chaos, empathy and kindness and mischief, and life.

Phil’s heart ached the first time he saw Grian, with his wild hair and shining eyes.

Grian refused to break.

As Phil led him through the motions he refused to cave, refused to blindly accept the morals of those who had kidnaped him.

Grian hated him.

It shone in his eyes. This child hated him because of what he was doing, because in this child’s eyes, he was the same as the rest of the Watchers.

And maybe he was, Phil realised, his heart aching as this kid, this teen, who had already gone through so much went through more.

His heart ached, empathy crawling out of that box and consuming his mind as for the first time in eons, he cried. He cried for this child that hated him.

Maybe that's why he started getting reckless, why he started speaking to this ball of chaos and hatred and life.

“You hate me.” This was the first thing he had ever said to a student.

Shock, fear, and worry all flashed across Grians' face.

He would not call this child by that galactic branding.

“I don't,” Grian insisted and Phil had smiled.

“You're lying,” he had said, and what an odd thing to be happy about. The fact that Grian could still lie to him was another sign of a cracked soul that refused to break.

“Why does it matter if I hate you or not?”

A question: what a good thing to hear in this wasteland of orders.

“Watchers don't hate,” he murmured with a smile, “Watchers shouldn't hate or care or enjoy.'' He had seen Grian’s face twist in fear, he was scared Phil would hurt him for hating him. What a sad thought.

“So keep hating me,” he whispered, “Enjoy flying, love to ruin my day, but whatever you do, never stop feeling.” It was a quiet plea, begging for this little light to not go out before he could get it out of this suffocating reality. “It might be the only thing keeping you mortal.”

He reviled in Grian’s confusion, a sign of life, and the entropy of emotion.

Something that now crawled from that no longer locked box, something that slid and slipped into his psyche.

Grian loved to fly as much as he hated Phil.

It was something he should squash, flying was a tool, not something to play with.

But Phil also loved to fly, wings as natural to him as if he had been born with the extra appendages.

So he took Grian flying hidden under the guise of training. His heart ached as he watched the child fly, a chaotic grin carved into his pupil’s face.

“It's freeing, isn't it? A flap of your wings and suddenly the world no longer holds you.” He had missed his voice. Every time he spoke he broke a rule, he was of too low status to speak. But here? With this raging inferno of hatred and anger and sadness, he spoke.

“Yeah, I mean kind of, the speed is the fun part for me at least.'' A different opinion, what a ridiculous thing to feel joy over. So simple and seemingly common yet something he hadn't heard in years.

And he smiled.

Grian didn't belong here, he wasn't meant to be a Watcher. Just like Phil hadn’t, but no one was there to save Phil.

But he was there to save Grian.

Grian no longer hated him, if he was being bold he may even say the younger liked his mentor.

...That might have changed when he got Grian out.

The look of hurt on the other's face made his heartbreak.

But it was worth it.

It was worth it when he was thrown down in front of the leader and was stripped away of all things that made him a Watcher.

He was happy they were all gone, even.

The only thing they couldn't rip away were his wings, they were meant to be his the second he came into the world and he was no natural-born, a lost limb would regrow.

He was meant to fly and they couldn’t take that from him.

That thought brought a spite filled laugh bubbling into his throat even as he was told his punishment he couldn’t help but laugh.

The Watcher wings wouldn't leave him so they must not be just for the Watchers.

They were his wings, they were his wings, not tools of the Watchers. He flew on his own, he didn't need them.

He was free.

So very very free.

Even as they trapped him in a world on hardcore mode he laughed.

They couldn't take away his wings so who's to say they could trap him?

They wouldn't find Grian and they couldn't keep either of them locked up and away.

He would never learn from them again.

He was alive and he was a player, not a Watcher. Not some natural-born they could corrupt and change.

He was a fucking player damn it and players survived.

Players never died.

You could kill them, beat them, and try to break them but players are chaotic by nature.

Players couldn’t be Watchers.

And he couldn't help but thank Grian for reminding him of that.

The robes never fit for a reason and he smiled as he gazed at the sky with his own eyes for the first time in forever, carefully holding his hand out to shield the delicate things from the light.

“Good luck, Grian.”

The world was awfully plentiful for a place of punishment.

He supposes it was meant to show him everything he would miss as a Watcher, the endless supplies, the lack of hunger, the lack of mobs hunting him.

But all of those simply made him feel all the more alive, connected. He feared for his life the rush of fear came with bubbling laughter. It wasn't a dull apathy it was a player's joy and fear and chaos.

He needed to collect to build. The endless toil of pleasant stinging at his aching limbs, pain was something Watchers didn't have. Pain was annoying and that's why he loved it. The satisfying ache after a job well done.

Hunger and food was something he missed. The soft ache in his gut and the pleasant taste of food. He had missed eating.

The Watchers had failed. They thought they could tame players and were so wrong, so very very wrong.

When he died he was happy.

But the players didn't die.

So as he opened his eyes, floating in an abyss, he smiled reaching out he pressed an option he had been waiting for.

{Return to Main Menu}

Players didn't die, they could be killed but they never truly died.

Players, unlike natural borns, could come back after they had been killed.

They could come back to a world only players could enter, the Main Menu. And they could choose a new world, make a new home they could continue and continue forever.

He had missed the noise of the Hub, of the Menu

He had missed the rush of players with places to be as they ran about, young spawns toddling behind their caretakers as everything moved, and kept moving.

With a small smile on his face and hope in his heart, Phil walked.

---

Wilbur reminded him of Grian.

Wilbur had the same fire in his eyes, that same drive.

They shared the same eyes.

Dark coal-black that shone with colors of mischief and trickery.

Maybe that's why Phil was attached to the other.

He knew why he was attached to Techno. The younger's voice was too flat, his eyes too dull, too good of a fighter for Phil not to worry about where he went when he vanished. He reminded him of those perfect children. But there were times where his humor was too dry, his eyes too manic, and his smile poorly hidden. Techno was too stubborn to break even as Phil worried.

He knew why he was attached to Tommy. With his chaotic voice and bouncy personality, his quickness to change, and his ingrained defiance; he was like Grian in that he was alive.

Wilbur was a mystery, at least as to why he was so attached. Maybe he simply liked him but something in the back of his mind said that was untrue and some part of him whispered familiarity.

Maybe he'll figure it out someday.

----

Grian never forgot. He couldn't.

Here he was now, surrounded by people he loved. Smiling and laughing with a family. Yet he couldn't forget: it struck him when he flew, it found him in his dreams, it trailed behind him as he built.

He missed his mentor.

He didn't know their real name but he knew their voice, soft and patient and so kind in that sea of apathy.

He didn't know their favorite color but he knew their smile. Hidden and cautious, like at any moment the reason they had been given to smile would be ripped away.

He didn't know their hobbies, but he knew they loved to fly.

He knew they cared about him enough to risk their own life.

And he missed them.

He missed their kindness, their empathy.

He missed someone who understood.

MCC wasn't where he thought he would find them.

The faded pale blond, soft gentle smile, the pale purple wings. Wings they shared.

Green looked better on them than purple ever had Grian thought as he shoved through the crowd.

A name in galactic was spilling from his lips before he could stop himself, his savior hero friend dad dad DAD old mentor glancing to see him eyes watered in a second as Grian finally reached them crashing together in a mess of tears and names, both wings spread wide.

"You’re alive, you’re alive, they didn't kill you." Was what he was saying.

"You made it. God look at you look at how you've grown." Was what the other was murmuring.

They stood there, reveling in the fact the other was alive for at least an hour though it was probably just seconds before another voice called out

"Phil? Uh, what's going on here?"

Grian didn't look up just sniffled as he murmured, "Phil's a good name."

"So is Grian."

His name was Phil, and Grian had missed him.

-----

:)